What if the Mystic is Not the One with the Followers?

 What if the Mystic is Not the One with the Followers?

This morning, I listened to Sat Guru Jagdev’s podcast on The Chosen Ones. A voice that reached thousands—perhaps millions—carrying messages of spiritual awakening, higher calling, the rise of the light-bearers in a world losing its way.

And as I sat with his words, a quiet sensation crept over me—not of awe or revelation, but of deep familiarity. As though I was hearing my own thoughts played back to me, refracted through a polished lens. The same themes, the same rhythm of speech, the same ideas I’ve labored over for years in my journals, sketchbooks, and blog entries. Even the pauses felt familiar. It was like hearing echoes from my own inner sanctum, filtered through another voice.

For a moment, I wondered: Is this AI-crafted? Or simply divine synchronicity? And then came the more vulnerable thought: Why him? Why do they call him a Mystic, while I remain a whisper in the wind—read by a few, followed by none, just me and my reflections on this long road of seeking?

But no—this is not envy. It is not the hunger for followers or accolades. It's the ache of being unseen, even when you’ve spent a lifetime walking with your heart wide open and your hands ink-stained with truth. It's the ache of knowing you’ve lived what others merely proclaim. You’ve tested spirit against survival. You've sat in silence with death, with doubt, with divine laughter in the jungle, the desert, the snow.

And yet, no one calls you Mystic.

So I ask myself:
What if the true mystic is not the one with the followers, but the one who keeps showing up anyway?
What if being a mystic isn’t about being heard by the world, but being honest with yourself, so utterly, painfully honest that your life becomes the sermon?

Let the polished voices rise, let the AI-sculpted gurus shine if they must.
But I will remain here, grounded in my smallness, rooted in the sacred ordinary.
My path is not broadcast. It is breathed.

And if even one soul stumbles upon these words and feels a flicker of recognition—of rawness, of realness—then perhaps that is all the mystic ever needed to do.

—